Marrying Up (5 page)

“Doesn’t every action have a reaction?”

“No.”

“But I’ve always thought that life is like the game of pool…”

“It isn’t.”

“Pinball?”

“Nope… Well, maybe. But only if you think of yourself as the flippers and not the ball, see? Remember, Holly—you were the one who told me you want to be an actor, and not a
re
-actor.”

“Look,” I sighed. “I
know
you’re right. I
want
to be the flippers. And I
know
that my mom’s probably going be okay if I step on that crack, and that her health isn’t something I have any control over—but it
feels
wrong to do it. It seems so… I don’t know…reckless. Like, why take the chance?” It was lunchtime, a weekday, and pedestrians swarmed around us, irritated by our lack of motion.

Zukowski shook her head. “It only feels that way because you’ve been avoiding the cracks for so long. This problem isn’t something I can just turn off inside your head. To overcome it you’re going to have to actually
do
it. Over and over again until it doesn’t feel wrong. Until it just feels normal. And soon it won’t feel like anything at all. Okay?”

I nodded.

“So let’s start with our deep breathing…good…good…and now we can try visualizing it, just like we did upstairs in my office…”

Bravely, brazenly, I took a step in my mind. And another. And then another, letting my feet fall where they might. It wasn’t so hard.

“Now do it,” she prodded.

I raised my foot and started to move forward, but an image of my mother in traction weaseled its way into my brain. My chest tightened and my palms began to sweat. I retreated.

“Holly,” she sighed. “How do you expect to move forward if you can’t take one simple step?”

She could barely conceal her exasperation, even though my insurance company was paying her $115 an hour.

“I’ve been getting along fine for years,” I informed her. “You were the one who seized on this whole thing. I just mentioned it in passing, and jeez, look at us now.”

“Let me put it in perspective for you. I have patients who can’t leave their houses. Patients who can’t work or eat or sleep. People who are so paralyzed with fear that their lives are barely lives at all. I can help you through this, Holly, but you have to be willing to move.”

“I’m pretty happy, you know,” I said. “I just want to be
more
happy. I want to be able to write my book.”

And this is what she said: “
The difference between a dream and reality is the difference between a goal and a plan.
If you want to write a book, then commit yourself to doing whatever it takes to make that happen, because things will never change unless
you
change them.”

Now, two years later, Zukowski’s words resonate within my very empty bedroom as loudly as if someone had struck a gong. If I ever want my dreams to become reality, I know what has to be done.

The goal? To free myself from the bonds of serfdom and write my book, the subject of which was now also plainly evident.

The plan? To marry a millionaire. Or at least date one seriously.

A Room of One’s Own

T
he cursor blinks hopefully.
Chapter One,
I type.
Finding a Mark.
How hard can it be?

I dial George’s number at work. “Can you get out early?”

“I guess so.”

“Meet me at Taylor’s at six.”

“Why? That place sucks.”

Taylor’s is an upscale-ish piano bar in the business district. The only reason I even know about it is because it happens to be next door to the only place in town to get decent Chinese takeout after 11:00 p.m., probably thanks to all the late-working lawyers and financial types in the neighborhood.

“I know, G.” I tell her. “Just indulge me.”

It’s Friday, the end to a fairly crappy week. I’ve spent pretty much the whole of it tied up on a comprehensive 2500-word piece on the best fall getaways in upstate New York—
a rare and pleasant change from the usual bland tasks I’m entrusted with.

Maybe they really are beginning to value me here,
I dared to dream as I handed it over to Cy just before deadline yesterday afternoon. I was actually quite pleased with how the story turned out, especially the cute little sidebar on the haunted inns of the Finger Lakes district. After thanking him for the opportunity for the umpteenth time (even though it was actually Mark Axelrod, Travel Editor, who okayed the pitch in the first place), Cy cleared his throat and informed me he’d decided to bank the story indefinitely and reprint something similar he’d seen that morning in the
Times
’s travel section instead. “Maybe we’ll run it next fall, Holly, although you’d have to update it. No big deal.”

Not to him, maybe. But at that very moment I knew for sure that I didn’t want to be at the
Bugle
next month, let alone next fall. And although it was just one silly story on chintz-stuffed country inns and pick-your-own-pumpkin patches, and Cy hadn’t even read it (which meant he couldn’t possibly hate it), panic set in. The proverbial coffin was being nailed shut—I could
feel
it in my bones.

I had to compose myself in the ladies’ room before I could go back to my desk and begin inputting the ads I’d been neglecting all week. Getting through the stack would surely take me the rest of the afternoon…

“Holly?”

I spun around. Virginia Holt, Life & Style Editor, tapping her tweed-wrapped toes like she’d been waiting there all day.

“Oh. Hi, Virginia.”

“Did I interrupt you?”

“Uh…”

“Not working on anything important, then?” Her nostrils flared in anticipation while she smoothed back her brassy red bob.

You know perfectly well that I rarely work on anything important, Virginia, thanks in large part to you turning down every story idea I’ve ever had.

“Well, actually—”

“Good. Because I need you to run these down to accounting
immediately.
It’s the contributors list for last month, and the check numbers don’t match up with the invoice numbers on
any
of them. Wait there for those halfwits to redo each and every one of them and then bring them back up to me
personally.
Do
not
give them to my assistant—she’s been completely unfocused since she came back from mat leave and this
absolutely
has to be fixed before the end of the day, ’kay?”

She threw a pile of envelopes and papers down onto my keyboard and clicked away before I could refuse. Apparently, the fact that my desk happened to be within fifteen feet of her office automatically cast me as her backup lackey.

But I couldn’t. Not today. I opened my top drawer and slid Virginia’s papers inside, knowing the blast of shit I’d catch for not doing exactly what she’d asked, but somehow unable to stop myself, either. Through bleary eyes, I entered one ad after the other, vowing with each new garage sale and adorable puppy giveaway to set my new plan into motion the following day, the first day of the rest of my life.

The
real
first day of the rest of my life.

I meant it this time.

In Buffalo, where ninety percent of the bars cater to either the college crowd or career beer drinkers, Taylor’s is probably the best place I know of to meet an eligible young bachelor of generous means. Even if nothing happens tonight, I figure it would be a good chance to explain The Plan to George while scoping out the scene for future reference.

I see my best friend bobbing up the street from a distance.
I can tell it’s her because she looks like Stevie Nicks with brown hair, all flowing scarves and bohemian bangles. A curious splash of color in a sea of gray suits.

When she notices me she smiles. “I almost couldn’t make it. The new
Mists of Avalon
limited-edition DVD/illustrated-hardback combo boxed set came in early and I had to call everyone on the list—”

I pull her into the alley around the corner. “My God, George. What on earth are you wearing? Do you mind if we tone this down a bit?” I giggle, tugging at a sparkly purple fringe. “We should probably try and maintain a minimum level of professionalism here, for appearance’s sake.”

That morning, I’d dug deep, deep into the back of my closet for the sleek charcoal suit purchased for my grandfather’s funeral two years ago. I thought it helped highlight some of my better assets—small waist, decent backside, well-turned ankles. Being cleavage-challenged is definitely a plus when it comes to professional wear, so I decided to forgo the more obvious choice of a crisp white blouse in favor of a lacy black camisole instead. I even punched it up with some lipstick and blush, a ton of black mascara to bring out the hazel flecks that rescued my eyes from coffee-brown, and tied my too-long dark hair back into a chignon for a change.

More than a few heads turned when I showed up at work. “Got a job interview, Holly?” Cy shouted out as I passed by his office. He was kidding, of course, but he didn’t sound overly concerned at the thought of it, either. Virginia just growled at me without looking up when I brought her the files from accounting that she’d wanted yesterday, and to add insult to injury, Jesse never even got the chance to see me in all my gussied-up glory; he was out of the office all day working on assignment.

George twists free of my grasp. “What? What are you talking about? It’s too dark in there to see anything, anyway.
And besides, who gives a damn? I like what I’m wearing today.”

“Look. Let’s just go in. I have a lot to tell you.”

“You are such a weirdo,” she says, and sashays past me into the bar.

I suppose now would be an excellent time to explain how my decision to try and be…well…less poor and single doesn’t make me shallow or evil or a victim or ignorant of sexual politics or anything like that. Okay, maybe it makes me a teeny, tiny bit shallow—I can admit it!—but the honest and sincere way in which I intend to go about the whole thing will infuse that shallowness with a certain depth. I promise.

Because The Plan was not born out of greed, envy, lust or any other deadly sin, but rather from a genuine desire for self-actualization, I know I’m going to have no problem justifying it to myself or others. And I can also tell you that like all great romantic adventures, it’s about a whole lot more than just having a warm body to sleep next to or being able to buy Creme De La Mer moisturizer at $110 an ounce without thinking twice. It’s not like I’ve been sitting around for years, crying and wishing I’d simply been born rich, or anything as ugly or unenlightened as that. Yes, this is going to be a love story of my own creation, inspired by my need to write something vital and necessary, and fuelled by my desire to grow and change into the person I want to become.

I will achieve everything I’ve been working toward in therapy in one fell swoop.

And there’s one other thing…one other reason. Marilyn Monroe and her merry band of husband-hunters aside, I’ve seen the glorious effects of the marriage between love and wealth first-hand. Which is why I also had Asher and Zoe to thank for planting the idea of The Plan within me, at least subconsciously. Our lunch earlier in the summer had sparked
a bit of a self-pity fest, so it should come as no great surprise to anyone that, in my weakened condition, I ended up indulging in one of those singlehood meltdowns I’d always felt so immune to. Only
my
meltdown was different, because from it, great change would soon be born.

Zoe and Asher were old high school friends, and I hadn’t seen them in ages. Back in the day, the three of us were thick as thieves. Sure, we were big losers—boys who wear black eyeliner and girls who wear combat boots fall somewhere between band geeks and the janitor on the popularity spectrum in suburban American high schools—but we didn’t give a shit. Cheerleaders mocked us and football players spat on us, and we loved every single minute of it.

Asher was supersmart and received a partial scholarship to Brown. His parents, though stunningly cheap, were so terrified he was gay that they liquidated their 401(k) plans to pay for the rest of their wayward son’s Ivy League education, hoping that four years at what they assumed was a nice, conservative East Coast campus might be enough to straighten him out.

Although Asher wasn’t even remotely into guys, he truly enjoyed letting his parents think he was, so he was more than a little peeved when he could no longer avoid telling them he and Zoe were getting married (“It worked!” Mr. and Mrs. Blake had apparently shouted to each other when he gave them the news). I was a bit surprised myself when I learned that they were together, since none of us had ever hooked up in high school, except for the time Zoe and I got drunk at a Pearl Jam concert and made out just to see what it would be like. After Asher left for school, Zoe says she just sort of realized he was The One, and so she eventually followed him out to Rhode Island. I suppose two years of soul-crushing, booze-blurred bar-hopping with me and George was enough to give shy little Zoe the courage she needed to profess her undying love to an old friend.

Happily, the feeling was quite mutual. Now they live in Philadelphia, where Asher works as a lawyer for the A.C.L.U. and Zoe has a dog-grooming business. These days, they’re quite wealthy, too, courtesy of Zoe’s generous dad, who had recently come into more money than he could ever spend, due to a substantial patent payout on some computer-chip thingie he’d dreamed up years ago. That’s basically it. We still keep in touch, though not as often as we should.

When the two of them walked into the restaurant, they were as luminous as the last time I’d seen them, at their wedding almost a year earlier. Asher and Zoe were one of those couples who were completely unaware of how wonderful they were together. You know the type, I’m sure—that they didn’t make you sick is almost enough to make you sick.

After the usual catching up, complete with mutual berating for not visiting more often, I could see that they were anxious to tell me something. Naturally, I figured they were pregnant.

“Are you kidding?
Me?
Pregnant? No way!” said Zoe.

Asher rolled his eyes.

“Why not?” I asked. “What’s so crazy about that?”

“She tells me we’re not even close to ready yet,” he sighed.

“But you’re the only married friends I have,” I pleaded. “You’re also the only normal people I know who are married. I
need
you to have kids. You’ve got to restore my faith in the whole process.” Thinking of my nieces and nephews, I figured it would be nice to know there was such a thing as a non-obnoxious child before having one myself.

“Have your own damn kids,” Zoe laughed, pushing her long blond bangs out of her eyes.

“Maybe later,” I said.

“I’ve told her I’m ready to plant my seed,” Asher said, grinning.

“My field needs to lie fallow for a while. But you can plant your seed in the shower, if you like.”

“Mock me, hun, I don’t mind,” he said as he turned to face her. “But the simple truth is, I want to decorate the earth with as many beautiful babies as you’ll let me give you. It’s the only thing I know to do to keep from sliding into the abyss, to make it all mean something. Otherwise, it’ll be like we were never here at all.”

Zoe stared at him quietly for a moment. If a guy ever said anything like that to me, I’d be on my back with my legs in the air praying for fertilization before the waitress even noticed we were gone.

“Sorry.” She sniffed a little and tried to smile.

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “He can wait until you’re ready.”

“It’s not that…” Asher said as he squeezed her hand. “It’s her dad. He’s not well.”

“What?” My heart tightened. Douglas Watts was a true sweetheart—a hardworking single dad who’d raised Zoe and her sisters into three strong, self-assured women.

He leaned in and said quietly, “They found a spot on his liver. He’s having a biopsy tomorrow, but it doesn’t look good. That’s why we came home for a bit.”

Zoe looked at the wall behind me and blinked back tears.

And I’d thought they were pregnant. I knew there wasn’t much I could say to reassure her.

“I’m here if you need me.”

That was more than three months ago—when all this started, I suppose.

In a typical addition to the Bad-Things-That-Happen-To-Good-People file, Mr. Watts’s spot did turn out to be cancer. He had surgery, followed by a round of chemo, and he’s doing okay for the time being, but there’s really no way of knowing for sure. On the plus side, Zoe and Asher visited as often as they could throughout the summer, so at least
I was able to see them a bit more than usual. And there’s nothing like the heady combination of hanging out with a great couple and a reminder that death can knock on your door at any moment to make you sit up and reassess your own life.

The more I saw of my two old friends—truly in love, free from money trouble, oozing career satisfaction, leaning on each other in a time of crisis—the more I wanted what they have for myself. If that makes me a pathetic throwback to the 1950s, unable to feel complete without a man on my arm, then so be it. I can live with that.